The Accused
by Maus17
Summary: (Based off of the tension in Death Note, and the crime/suspense stuff) Things are not always what they seem to be.
1. Chapter 1

Simmons has seen many things in his day.

Swearing no longer fazes him, neither does the screaming insults aimed for him and his mother, and on one occasion, his entire generation. He is no longer moved by the deceitful tears and feigned surprise, over dramatic gasps and shakes of the head.

Time has made him unfaltering, unmoving, and steadfast, like a stone in a torrential river.

This case, however, is unlike one he's ever come across. Maybe it's just because it's hard to believe something like this could happen in a place like New York, but then again..

It's New York.

As many times as he's read the files, shuffled through the documents and looked at the pictures, it just can't seem to sink into his skull.

Maybe it's just because none of this makes sense to him. It just doesn't.

Leaned back in his office chair, the thirty-five year old African American male runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh of defeat, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling, silently asking for help. No help arrives, of course.

"Simmons?" calls a voice, making his head snap up. He blinks at Dominguez questioningly. The rookie fidgets uncomfortably and fixes his collar and tie for the umpteenth time that day, swallowing. Green eyes meet brown, and both shine with trepidation for the slightest of moments.

"What?" he asks bluntly, slapping the thick papers into his weathered palm. The newbie looks around, as if telling a never before heard secret, his adam's apple bobbing as he licks his chapped lips and leans in. Simmons waits rigidly.

He can smell the linguini on Dominguez's breath, see the anxious bead of sweat on his brow, and the odd pallor his tan complexion holds as he opens his mouth and-

"You're up for interrogation," he blurts quietly, looking around again and rushing away like a frightened molerat before Simmons can respond. The senior sighs and throws his hands into the air, staring dazedly at the PacMan eating dots on his screensaver.

"Well damn," he curses silently, shoulders slumping as his brow furrows.

This will be a long night.

* * *

They have informed him that she is different, fragile.

But he still doesn't find himself ready, despite their helpful commentary.

Sighing and closing the door behind him, Simmons eyes the one sided glass and fixes his cobalt tie. Folders are clutched in his hand, and his expression is one of grim professionalism. When he turns to the sleek metal interrogation table, he freezes. He has been mentally preparing himself for a screaming and blubbering mess, for someone banging their head against the wall, for a hostile and deadly scowl. A counselor or interpreter, perhaps? She is alone- and he has no idea how to feel about that.

Arthur Simmons looks down at the identification photograph pressed against his thick digits as he approaches and sits down slowly. Hostile and harsh, giving a new twist to the phrase 'If looks could Kill….' the blue-gray eyes on the paper flash at him from the pale angry face and the mass of unruly bronze curls.

This looks nothing like the girl sitting before him. Well, not exactly sitting, per se. More like crouching.

She puts most of her weight on her toes, knees curled to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, fingers digging into the ash-stained and tattered jeans. Her knuckles are white, nails grayed. Thin elbows poke awkwardly out of the sleeves of her used to be green shirt, now splattered with crimson and black-gray clouds. Scrapes and sooty bruises coat her pallid complexion, and little beads of blood speckle her lips. Purple coats the underside of her eyes, and her hair is a floating bird's nest on her head.

The eyes Simmons is seeing are not looking at him. They are looking through him.

Eerily vacant, swirling with odd blue-gray mist.

For a second, Simmons swears the room gets colder as a chill threatens to run its icy hands down his spine. He clears his throat quietly, jarring himself from his thoughts- and the eyes do not move.

"Hello, Miss Hilton," he states. She flinches as if his words were obscene slaps to the face, and blinks rapidly, small nose wrinkling. Her shoulders slump forward, and her head tilts as she twitches in disapproval and presses her cheek to her shoulder.

"Not Miss. I'm not Miss. Not like Miss," she whispers, swaying from side to side. "Emily, not Miss. Emily. Emily. My name. Emily- not Miss."

He finds himself strangely...relieved. At least they are seemingly getting somewhere.

"Well, excuse me. Hello, Emily-"

"Yes, Emily. I'm Emily. Hello…"

"I understand some...unfortunate events took place tonight," he begins tentatively. Heck, he is as clueless as Dominguez at the moment. Emily's breath hitches, and her chest swells as her fingers dig deeper into her pants. She nods vehemently, head bobbing.

"Bad," she agrees, voice cracking as her eyes dart about the room. "Bad, unfortunate...sad…"

She chokes on her own words and then speaks again, silently.

"I don't like sad."

"Emily, I'm going to have to ask you a few questions."

The twin moons flit to the documents being spread out before her, and she inches away with a shiver.

Images, quotes, befores and afters, Ziploc bags.

A sleek office building, rendered a charred mess. Building beams and doors coated with ashen remains, books, magazines, and informational text burnt to a crisp. Fried work shirts and lab coats, melted labcoats, shattered beakers.

An albino, pail, with limp hair that falls about his vermillion eyes. Smiling at the camera. His after picture is not as pretty as the before.

Old man, thick gray mustache, goggles to rival Harry Potter. Missing.

Young Moroccan scientist, not well-known or liked, dead.

"Emily, can you identify some of these things for me?" he asks, eyes fixating themselves on the estranged girl before him. Her lip trembles, and she jerks with stifled, hesitant cries, throat convulsing. Strands of hair fall into her face, which is trying to decide whether to blanch or flush.

"Emily," he presses firmly, pointing to the old man, the before pictures in front of her, the after pictures in front of him. She lets out a continuous whine and clutches at her skull, rocking and shaking her head.

"No, n-no, can't...don't wanna...no, please…" she begs silently. "Bad..Sad...Please.."

Her jaw clenches and she lurches forward, slamming her palms onto the table with a thud.

Unfazed, Simmons stretches a finger and points to the man yet again, voice unwavering.

"Who is this?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Emily was playing 'House Of Cards' with her waffles again. Her mouth, chin, hands- she was all the way up to her elbows in candied strawberries in syrup. He sighed and smiled, eyes twinkling. "Emily, just __eat__ them." She pouted. _

* * *

_ "Work time, Emmy." _

_ He frowned in confusion as he saw her come out with a green blouse instead of the bright yellow one she had picked out earlier...Then he looked down at his own emerald T-shirt. _

* * *

_ "I spy...something..white..."_

_ "That's a low blow, Em. A low blow."_

_ "Emily loves you."_

_ "Hah, love you too."_

* * *

_ Thick glasses catching the light of the sun, a friendly grin on his face, the grandfather-like figure scooped her up and chuckled. "Well, good morning. How is my finest pupil?"_

_"...No hug."_

* * *

_ "Little freak," he hissed, grumbling under his breath as she passed him in the hall, shuffling oddly and fiddling with her Rubik Cube. For a moment, it almost seemed like she heard him and understood. Her misty eyes swirled to him through the mass of curls before lowering again. Only the floor felt the hidden fury seething in her irises._

* * *

_ Chlorine Trifluoride is the most flammable chemical. Reactive to almost any substance, this violently volatile liquid can spontaneously combust and burst into flames even if there is no ignition source. It burns through things that are labeled as 'fire safe' and is even capable of rendering human bones to ash. Most fire control or suppression methods do not work, and usually end up worsening the situation. It reacts with human skin and tissues by igniting them on contact and CIF3 poisoning is often painful and lethal. She knew this. _

* * *

_ Dominguez felt like throwing up as he saw the contents of the black bag, and christened himself for the third time in ten minutes. _

_"Bendito.."_

* * *

_ LaRousse wasn't fooled. Something about her, those eyes... It wasn't right. _

_"I don't think so."_

* * *

From outside, the redhead watches with slitted green eyes, hands folded neatly behind her back.

_ "_I don't like you! You're not nice! Stop talking to me- _Emily doesn't like this man!_" she cries, shaking her head and flying out of her chair, sending the metal toppling backwards behind her with a loud, cold thump. Her chest heaves and her fingers dig into her palms, nails embedding themselves into the rough skin as she hunches her shoulders. Muscles coil under her skin like a snake waiting to strike, and her jaw is clenched fiercely. Her irises shine with fire, and saltine tears as they streak down her sooty face.

Simmons is not abashed in the slightest. He lets out a sigh and stands slowly, blinking down at the puny thing. She's only four feet seven inches tall- he is close to six feet and has years of street chases, basketball, and bomb evading under his belt. She has probably never seen a track field in her life, and has never lifted a one hundred fifty pound weight. She's probably never seen the barrel of a gun pointed at her face, or the fleeing vehicle of a murderer, the face of a homicidal psycho mere inches from her own. She just hasn't. Simmons is trim, but bulky with muscle mass and large forearms, powerful legs to match. He has.

He knows this, and his steely brown eyes bore into her vacant ones, the way she twitches to the left and whirls around, speaking to the far corner of the room, pale face tilted upwards. No backup on this one- too many people could be disastrous. It is only him and her, and the secret public behind the glass.

That's just fine with him.

"Emily, please sit down," he says firmly. "Or we will be obligated to use force. You don't want that, do you?"

His manner of speaking is blunt, and he wastes no time with slow, child-like tones to please her. This is a prime suspect, not someone's five year old at the park. Business is business. His chiseled jaw tightens fractionally, and he leans forward as she shakes her head violently and looks up again, eyes moving as if she is reading a text off the very walls, swirling before her in a language that only she can read.

"No."

"Then si-"

"Want Iggy. Emily wants Iggy. Emily _needs_ Iggy. Where is Iggy? I want Iggy, I need Iggy, strangers are danger._ Iggy...IGGY_!" she says, her voice getting higher and higher with each and every syllable until she is screaming his name at the top of her lungs and shaking her head, hunching over. She kicks the table, and it doesn't move. For a few seconds, he stares blankly as she bellows and wails, punching the wall and trying to bang her head against it. Then he moves.

Like a suit-clad bullet, Simmons shoots forward and yanks a thick handful of curls, pulling her backwards as he wounds his arm around her torso so as not to hurt her too much. They're detectives, not cavemen. They need answers.

He wraps her in a tight and constricting grip, staying still and unmoving as she shrieks and tosses her head back in an effort to make their skulls bash. It doesn't work, and he merely squeezes as she aims a hearty kick to his knee, her one un-captured arm flailing and clawing at him through his jacket, snagging his ear.

Emily strains against the bonds, furious to be held in one spot and kept from doing as she pleased. She wails like a banshee and tosses her head back, burying her teeth in the fabric covering his shoulder. Her jaw works like that of a bulldog, and she heaves convulsively through her mad screaming and sobs, one pale hand slapping onto his neck, a white leech as her nails dig into the chocolate skin.

"Emily, I do not want to hurt you," he growls down at her, straining as she tries to scream loud enough to drown him out, vocal cords hoarse and at maximum capacity, head tossing from side to side. He can feel her saliva seeping through his suit, the feel of her canines scraping against his shoulder, and the vibrations of her outrage. Simmons is a rock, but he is not telling her complete falsehoods. He does not want to hurt her because she holds valuable information. "I just want you to answer my questions, and you can leave...You can go home."

After a few seconds, she goes limp, a rag doll in his grasp, chest heaving, her hot breath heating his sleeve up, eyes wide and confused. Her fingers fall from his neck slowly, and her shoulders start to tremble.

Sluggishly, her mandible unhooks from his arm and she releases him, blinking and sniveling like an errant child separated from its mother.

"Home..?" she asks silently, her voice nothing more than a soft and croaking whisper in the metallic room. Simmons nods.

He might be stretching it thin on this one. He doesn't know how Emily will respond to the inquiries he will raise, and her answers will decide her very fate. If she is proved to be innocent, she will be taken into a witness protection program, most likely. If her responses prove her to be guilty, well...Everyone knows what happens to the guilty.

The detective only watches as Emily reluctantly slips form his grasp onto the floor, and wipes her face with her fists, lifting up the chair as if it were the most heaviest thing in the sets it back down with a loud clang and plops into it heavily, sighing shakily as she stares at the people again. Ever observant, Simmons slides into his seat and stares as she curls back into her habitual position. After a moment, he stretches out his index finger once more and points to the picture of the old man.

"Now...Who's this? Do you know him, Emily?"

She nods vehemently and lurches forward as if to try to touch the picture, shying away at the last moment and looking ashamed. She bites her lip and squints, running a hand through her mass of curls.

"Barry...Professor Barry...Boss Barry..Very smart, very nice..Emily liked him," she whispers, a small hint of what seems to be strange nostalgia in her tone as she lets her gaze trail from the picture to Arthur Simmons' face. He nods dutifully, taking mental notes, and pushes the picture away.

"Did you, now? What makes you choose 'liked' instead of 'likes', Emily?" he asks, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward and intertwines his hands together. The girl before him blinks dazedly, as if not understanding his saying. Then, slowly, realization spreads across her face, and she shakes her head jerkily, pursing her lips together firmly.

"Don't know- he's gone. Emily can't find him, doesn't know where he is," she mumbles, lowering her eyes once more and shrugging lopsidedly. She is silent. Simmons sighs and points to the next picture- the young Moroccan scientist: Sergio De La Fuente.

"And this? Do you know who this is? I hear you two weren't the best of friends. Is that true?" he asks, gauging her reaction carefully. As if her were carrying some strange disease, Emily shies away from the photograph and frowns, her lips turning down as her eyes become slits of disapproval. She tenses up and looks down at the floor.

"Emily doesn't like him. He's mean. Calls me- CALLS ME FREAK! I'M NOT A FREAK!"

She spirals again, slamming her fists on the table and glowering at the picture as if it has live, containing the remains of Sergio in it white generic borders. Tears brim in her eyes and she bites her lip as it trembles violently, her breath coming in short gasps.

"It was a mistake," she cries, doubling over. "Bad, bad mistake, deadly mistake. Didn't mean to, didn't want to...Just didn't know. Didn't know. Wanted to make things even, make them right..."

Simmons waits patiently until Emily's tears abate and finally stop. Slowly, she sits back down and stares at the last picture, and without being told, points to it with a shaking digit.

"Iggy," she croaks. "Tha's Iggy...Emily loves Iggy, would never do anything- it was an accident...Very very bad day...bad day for Emily, Iggy was supposed to..make it better...Iggy's gone, not with Emily anymore...Iggy's mine...My Iggy...Took care of Emily, me..."

"How do you know he is gone? Gone where? Do yo know how he got there...?"

"...Haven't seen him..Since boom...Iggy disappeared."

* * *

He and Emily were never on the best of terms. It makes sense. From the other side, LaRousse closes the folder silently, her movements sleek and professional as she glances back up, ruby lips glimmering as she digs her teeth into them ever so slightly.

The point in which all hell had broken loose, it had started in De La Fuente's quarters. Where the most damage had been inflicted. That was where the hellfire had been born, where it had branched out. The last place in which the security camera had seen...

Dominguez, despite being a rookie, was looking more right every second she glanced at him and ran his theories over in her mind. For once, a greeny might show her up and prove her wrong.

Sighing, the female shakes her head and turns back to her own table, this one made of wood, and wielding a small television screen with a fuzzy and distorted image, hissing with static. She removes the remote control from her pocket and presses 'rewind', watching everything occur backwards for at least the sixth time.

Then it starts to play forwards. She stops at the place in which she was instructed to, after watching the _entire thing..._

She watches her bump him, and sees the flask fall. She stares as she cries and wails, and how he consoles her. LaRousse's eyes reflect the screen as _she _runs off and shoves past crowds in her turmoil, shoving away the grandfather-like figure.

And then...

Her footsteps slow, and she starts to sneak past, as if afraid...Before stopping and staring at something within. Silently, LaRousse prays for it to be different, and each and every time...her prayer is not answered.

She walks in, starts to stare and write, move things, get equipment...

LaRousse silently pleads as the girl on the screen snatches up a bottle in her gloved hand.

The ginger tears her eyes away from the screen and continues to stare past the glass as Simmons interrogates the accused.


End file.
